SUMMARY: Urged by the ancient wisdom of trees, the author moves through a reflective journey of the natural and the man made, the innate and the learned. Through signs, symbols and messages, the polarities are woven together into a timely and sensitive message for a new paradigm. A poetic narrative leads the reader into the magic, wonder and mystery of nature, the forest and the luminosity of one’s one being.

THE BACK STORY: It all began with a raccoon and a move to a sacred piece of land, which forever changed my life for the better. The actual writing began in May of 2004, months before Hurricane Katrina and the tsunami of December 2005.It grew, practically on its own, from a journal, scraps of paper I had written notes on over the years and recordings I made after realizing I should keep track of what I was experiencing; especially when my experiences were being verified by outside events, people and information that was coming my way in a synchronized and connected fashion.

“It all began as a seed, long ago when I was a child growing up in rural North Carolina. I often roamed the woods and adjacent fields in those days, free and solitary, often not returning home until well after dark, much to my mother’s chagrin. It was pure magic.

“Much of what I felt, heard and sensed in those days was shelved away as I grew into my teens. It lay dormant for many years until I came to live on sacred land in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Now, in retrospect, it is clear to me that a series of events led me back to walking with the trees.”

WHY THIS TITLE? The title for this book came from a vision I had of actually walking with the trees. I saw myself coming over a large green hill, hand in hand with huge, gnarled, old trees. They were laughing and would occasionally lift me up and swing me so my feet left the ground. I felt as though I could fly. I was totally safe and filled with limitless joy and peace. This vision came at a time when my life seemed anything but, and so it gave me the internal knowing that I required to start listening again — to the sound of water trickling over the rocks, fireflies in flight, snow as it fell and the ancient, wise whispering of the trees. Walking With Trees is a record of this journey. I like to say to those who call it my book, “I was the vehicle that allowed it to come through.”

WHY WOULD SOMEONE WANT TO READ IT? For the joy of it, a peaceful easy read that one can pick up on any page at any time. I’ve had readers tell me that they have read it more than once and often keep it by their bed or other handy place, a constant reminder that there is something still amazing and wonderful about the world we live in and are sometimes prone to forget.

REVIEW COMMENTS:

“It is an amazing story — touching and real on every page — that is universal and speaks to the language of love and connection.” — Kay Montgomery, music imagery facilitator.

“Walking With Trees is a remarkable work. I read it last night and remain impressed with its mysticism, its introspection, its resolve, its deep understanding, its gentle kindness and its structure. I’ve never read anything quite like it before.” — Dan Smith, author and editor.

“A wonderful book … poetic, profound, a work of tender significance. The book is a treasure. Dare I state out loud that it of the magnitude of Thoreau’s writings?” — E-mail from reader.

“Lowe’s book Walking With Trees describes her simplified life among the imperiled woods of Bedford County Long attuned to the call of trees, Lowe decided to “cut off the TV and the AC,” open her windows and ears, and listen to the quiet rustling.” — Lisa Field, columnist, Roanoke Times.

AUTHOR PROFILE: “I grew up in rural North Carolina and now reside near the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Although this is my first published book, I have been writing since childhood, incuding short stories, essays and poetry. (I have a Tupperware container filled with matchbook covers, scraps of paper, pretty much whatever was handy to scribble on, going back to childhood).

“I have had poems published in some small publications, an essay on NPR’s Website ‘This I Believe” and currently post my work on my blog at walkingwithtrees.com — a work in progresses, as there is no high speed Internet here. I might add that there is no cell phone of television reception either.

“On some level, I feel Walking With Trees is incomplete, as I have a ton of notes and pages … and the journey continues on. I am still learning and processing my experiences here … and am still amazed almost daily. Perhaps at some point I will werite the sequel, titled Deeper Into the Woods.”

AUTHOR COMMENT: “The trees are talking, and I am not the only one listening.”

SAMPLE CHAPTER: Available on Amazon.

WHERE TO BUY IT: Barnes & Noble, Amazon, Authorhouse.

PRICE: $7.94 — $14.49.

CONTACT THE AUTHOR: Via e-mail, fbrcmg@gmail.com, or through her blog.

SUMMARY: Spanning the years 1964-1972, Fire in the Bones follows Luke, an American boy plagued by panic and loneliness growing up in a nominally religious middle class family. He looks for security and companionship wherever he can, first through daydreams, including a relationship with an imaginary friend named Bob, and then on to sixties pop culture, via TV icon Batman and pop music sensations the Beatles. As Luke comes to pattern his identity after the Beatles and others, he creates a fantasy world for himself that keeps the panic and loneliness at bay. But when Lonnie walks into his life, he enters a new reality where a flesh-and-blood female offers him tangible security—but at a price Luke may not be willing to pay.

THE BACK STORY: What inspired me to write this? That’s pretty cool. My son had been doing NaNoWriMo—National Novel Writing Month—for a year or two, where you try to draft a novel of 50,000 words in a month. So I decided to do it too. We went to a little café in a bookstore for the first “write-in,” and I had a song in my mind—I’ve always loved popular music, and I’m an auditory person, so music is often floating around in my head—anyway, I had in my mind this song about fire and how it can actually clean or purify things, make them better. And I started to picture a scene I vaguely remembered about a little boy sitting in a little country church, fanning himself with one of those rectangular picture-fans on a stick that little country churches in the South used to have (maybe they still do). And the words started to come. That turned into the first scene/chapter in the book. The next three or four chapters of the book I based on other early memories or early stories I had heard. Then as the plot and the characters started to take shape and develop, it became clearer and clearer where the story needed to go.

WHY THIS TITLE?: I wanted a phrase that would capture the idea of things we feel strongly, whether good feelings, like love, or bad feelings, like fear. “Fire in the bones,” based on a quote from Jeremiah, fit the bill.
WHY WOULD SOMEONE WANT TO READ IT? What makes your book unique, and what niche audiences might it reach? If you like American pop culture, rock music, 60’s and 70’s, coming of age stories, characters most people can relate to or even remember being, you would probably enjoy Fire in the Bones. I take relatable elements like these and weave them together in a way that makes the book different.

REVIEW COMMENTS: “There are few young men and women in life who haven’t felt that immense love for a certain group of musicians in their lives; the kind of fascination that is so strong, every lyric to every song is nearly memorized, even without the usage of Google. Mark Harris captures this fascination excellently in Fire in the Bones, while also delving into the inner turmoil of preadolescence. Luke is a protagonist with many fears and many moments of overanalysis. Throughout the novel Luke finds his emotions channeled and guided through his passion for the Beatles’ music, while also through his crushes on pretty girls. Throw in a pinch of his raising in a church going family, and you get a complexity of character that alone makes this story worth reading. In dealing with his past fears of car accidents, the break-up of the Beatles, or pursuing a lovely gal named Lonnie, Luke’s story is reminiscent of the growing up that all young adults undergo, and written in a manner that makes it feel unique.”

“This is a very well-written gripping coming of age story with lyrical prose and characters you swear are alive and breathing somewhere. Taking place in the 60s, Harris did a fabulous job weaving in songs and events of the time-period into the plotline. I would recommend this book to those who enjoy stories that remind you of life back when you were growing up and trying to make sense of the world around you, including yourself.”

“The book was great. I felt the angst of the main character in his quest to make sense of his world and could even identify with his youthful anxieties in spite of he being a boy and I, a girl. We all go through similar fantasies and struggles as we negotiate our first relationships with the opposite sex. It was comforting to see Christ working in him without it screaming “this is a Christian book.” You wove that in nicely. Also really enjoyed the walk down memory lane with so many great song references from the 60’s and 70’s. Music is such a great connector to places and experiences that make up our lives.”

“A sweet look into the mind of an introverted young boy growing up in the 60’s and 70’s. I really enjoyed the teen romance at the end!”
AUTHOR PROFILE: I was born in Lexington, Kentucky, moved to New Jersey as a small boy, and met my wife in college in Pennsylvania. I now teach English in central Virginia, where I live with my wife and sons, as well as our border collie/yellow lab Emma and our completely antisocial cat Betty. Fire in the Bones is my first novel, and I have just finished a first draft of a second novel. I have also published a short story, several poems, several songs, and several articles on works of literature. When I’m not writing I enjoy playing games, thinking deep thoughts and thinking about nothing, listening to classic rock, making videos, and telling dumb jokes.
AUTHOR COMMENTS:Fire in the Bones deals with things most people go through, like trying to find the right person in your life, searching for love, security, a place to fit in and belong.

OUR CURRENTLY FEATURED BOOKS, “NEVER A HERO TO ME,” BY TRACY BLACK, “STEALING CHERRIES,” BY MARINA RUBIN AND “PASSAGE OAK,” BY K.M. DEL MARA, CAN BE FOUND BY SCROLLING DOWN BELOW THIS POST.

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UPCOMING ON SNOWFLAKES IN A BLIZZARD, APRIL 18-24.

“FIRE IN THE BONES,” BY MARK R. HARRIS

Spanning the years 1964-1972, Fire in the Bones follows Luke, an American boy plagued by panic and loneliness growing up in a nominally religious middle class family. He looks for security and companionship wherever he can, first through daydreams, including a relationship with an imaginary friend named Bob, and then on to sixties pop culture, via TV icon Batman and pop music sensations the Beatles. As Luke comes to pattern his identity after the Beatles and others, he creates a fantasy world for himself that keeps the panic and loneliness at bay. But when Lonnie walks into his life, he enters a new reality where a flesh-and-blood female offers him tangible security—but at a price Luke may not be willing to pay.

“WALKING WITH TREES,” BY P.R. LOWE.

I first encountered this book nearly 10 years ago, and loved it. Urged by the ancient wisdom of trees, the author moves through a reflective journey of the natural and the man made, the innate and the learned. Through signs, symbols and messages, the polarities are woven together into a timely and sensitive message for a new paradigm. A poetic narrative leads the reader into the magic, wonder and mystery of nature, the forest and the luminosity of one’s one being.

Writes Pamela: “It all began as a seed, long aqgo when I was a child growing up in rural North Carolina. I often roamed the woods and adjacent fields in those days, free abnd solitary, often not returning home until well after dark, much to my mother’s chagrin. It was pure magic.

“Much of what I felt, heard and sensed in those days was shelved away as I grew into my teens. It lay dormant for many years until I came to live on sacred land in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Now, in retrospect, it is clear to me that a series of events led me back to walking with the trees.”

“INDIVISIBLE,” BY RANDI T. SACHS.

Aaron and David have grown up with the strong bond of twin brothers. David has Down syndrome, and looks up to his big brother to protect him. When their parents and older sister are killed in an auto accident, David is the only survivor. Aaron becomes David’s legal guardian, and all his post-college-graduation plans become dust. The brothers learn how to survive their grief and make new lives for themselves. They face many challenges, but their fraternal bond and abiding love gives them the strength to go on. Their story is told with love, anger, despair, and joy. It will touch your heart.

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NEWS AND NOTES

This comes from Lucinda Clarke, whose novel “Walking Over Eggshells” was featured on Snowflakes in a Blizzard on Dec. 1.

“Unhappily Ever After is my new book, out on April 14th.

“It’s something entirely different to anything I have published before, set in Fairyland 200 years after that famous ball. By now, Cinderella is desperate for a divorce. The other royals have their problems too. Snow White won’t allow her philandering husband near her, while Beauty has turned out to be a raving nymphomaniac with a brood of 28 to prove it.

“As you can guess, it’s a satire along the lines of Tom Sharpe, the Carry On series or The Two Ronnies and early readers have loved it.”

I also wanted to announce that my latest, “Inspiration Street: Two City Blocks That Helped Change America” came out in March. You can find it on Amazon, and I’m offering a special $10 price (including the postage it takes to mail the book to you) for anyone on this list. My e-mail is writersbridge@hotmail.com.

THIS WEEK’S OTHER FEATURED POSTS, “STEALING CHERRIES,” BY MARINA RUBIN AND “PASSAGE OAK,” BY K.M. DEL MARA, CAN BE FOUND BY SCROLLING DOWN BELOW THIS POST.

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THE BOOK: Never a Hero to Me.

PUBLISHED IN: 2011.

THE AUTHOR: Tracy Black.

THE EDITOR: Kerri Sharpe at Simon & Schuster.

THE PUBLISHER: Simon & Schuster.

SUMMARY: Tracy Black was only five years old when her mother was hospitalised for the first of many occasions, leaving Tracy in the care of her father. His behaviour, seemingly overnight, changed from indifferent to violently abusive and, for the next seven years, Tracy was sexually and physically abused by her father, his friends and her own brother. All of the men were in the British Armed Forces. Tracy’s father compounded the abuse by sending her to baby-sit for his paedophile friends – whilst their own children slept in other rooms, these men would find excuses to leave later or return earlier than their wives in order to abuse her, with her own father’s blessing. When she sought help and safety the doors were closed as the authorities closed ranks. In this shocking and compelling book, Tracy Black pieces together the jigsaw of a story that has haunted her for the past forty years. She reveals the horrific betrayal of trust perpetrated by men who were considered upstanding citizens and heroes. Tracy’s tale reminds us all of the terrible ways in which paedophiles work and the secrets too many children are forced to carry alone. It is only now that she can tell her full story of recovery.

THE BACK STORY: I had my story all written out in 1995 and didn’t know what I wanted to do with it. It was therapeutic to have put it down on paper then I put it away in the back of a cupboard. For some reason, I have no idea why, I picked up a book about childhood abuse and read it, the author’s story was similar to mine. I contacted her and she gave me the name of her agent and suggested I got in touch. This was in July 2010 and the book was revamped and edited for publication in May 2011. It was all very quick and I didn’t have time to blink. All in all I have had no regrets and feel since the publication I have been able to move on with my life.

WHY THIS TITLE?: The title was chosen because my father was in the British Armed Forces and he was there to supposedly protect Britain and its people and as a father protect his children. Shouldn’t every little girl’s father be her hero? Since he was my abuser I can’t give him that title.

WHY WOULD SOMEONE WANT TO READ IT? My main reading audience is geared towards those that have also suffered childhood abuse. It not only relates my story but it also shows how you can summon inner strength to get on with your life?

REVIEW COMMENTS:

“Hard-hitting and uncompromising biopic that simply has to be read.” — Kato’s Revenge, 23 Aug 2015.

“My love for reading is the same as many of you, I suppose. I want to be thrown into a world of fantasy, of magic, of horror, of mystery. I rarely want to read a book that has elements of realism so potent and strong that the reading experience can actually become a harrowing one. However, the overriding feeling left with me regarding Never a Hero to me is its incredible power.

“It is hard to read in certain sections, but I tell you this – it is so well written you cannot help but flip through the pages. The story of five year old Tracy Black will hit you harder than perhaps any fantasy character you “have invested your time in. Why? Because little Tracy goes through things that no one should have to go through. You’ll have already gotten an idea from the synopsis. So whilst not an easy read, it is essential reading. People need to understand that the monster in this book does not have horns or carries a pitchfork. He’s a hero to some, because Tracy’s father is an Army man, and of course, there are many unsung heroes in the Forces and their sacrifice should always be appreciated. The army fights an enemy, and in this case, Tracy’s father is the enemy.

“He abuses her. At first, the abuse starts at the kind of level that instantly horrifies – but as this happens early on in the book, I suspected worse was to come. Even in my thoughts about how awful it might be, it was worse. I can’t imagine how Tracy coped. Oh, the story takes you through the years, but the main bulk of the book is Tracy from age five to age ten. Her father has her just where he wants her. He almost makes the abuse of his own daughter reasonable, often citing ‘You want your mother to be well, don’t you? So you’ll have to be a good girl.’

“Yes. As children we are told to be good. But when abuse is the centre of your young life, and your feelings tell you that this is wrong on every level, what does good mean anymore? This is a story that literally drags you through the pages. You feel Tracy’s pain, confusion, resentment, and yet I began to cheer when I could see the start of her rebellion. A rebellion she should have never had to start.”Her father doesn’t stop there. He uses the mother’s ‘condition’ as a reason to punish Tracy. I found myself getting increasingly annoyed with the mother, who seemed oblivious to the abuse her own daughter was suffering. At the same time, Tracy’s brother seems virtually impervious to blame. Both parents – especially the mother, lavish him with praise, whilst Tracy is treated no better than something you’d put in the bin.

“Not only are we taken through Tracy’s life, we are taken through several countries. When in Germany, things start to turn for the better, and there are signs Tracy may finally be able to defeat her tormentor. She just needed somebody to listen.

“The cover is very striking. An innocent, beautiful looking child, but there is so much emotion and angst in that face, if one looks closely. So my congratulations to the team behind the book cover. As ever, a book stands or falls on its content. Tracy Black has delivered a hard hitting tome which in its 300 pages deliver more than many longer books.

“Uncompromisingly graphic, it may upset some, but the world isn’t always butterflies and bunny rabbits. I can’t remember a book exhausting me as much as this one. It will leave you absolutely floored, and I have to say, the last two chapters are the real treasure of Never a Hero to Me. We often see those lists – 1000 books to read before you die, and so on. This book needs to be on that list, and yours. Do not miss it.”

Bypalfon 9 July 2014

A must read, shocking reading, very upsetting, but a book all should read to get rid of the myth that when these stories are brought out in adulthood they are sometimes made up, working on the theory that the child would tell at the time. This book tells why a child stays quiet and how the mind and words of the perpetrator work on terrorising the child. A very brave book to write and I hope in doing so it helped the writer put the past behind her.

Byhappy ladyon 27 June 2011

This book is written from the heart and is a moving account of a young girl and her shocking experiences. There is a good balance between detailing events without being too graphic. A must-read for anyone who works with children and young people to raise awareness of the shocking abuse some children endure and gain an insight into the lives some children lead. A real page-turner

AUTHOR PROFILE: This is difficult because for legal reasons the name Tracy Back is a pseudonym. The real me is an advocate for childhood sexual abuse survivors and I like to help others where and when I can. I’m in my youth, well, early *cough* fifties but I still think I’m quite youthful. I’m easy going and approachable and love to interact with readers of my book. Some of them have become very good friends.

Since the publication of Never a Hero to Me I caught the writing bug and followed it up with a second one, Never a Mother to Me. Afterwards I found that I had laid my ghosts to rest. I then turned my writing arm to fiction and wrote Things Fall Apart.

AUTHOR COMMENTS: Following the publication of Never a Hero to Me the response was unprecedented. I didn’t expect any feedback but I took my time in conversing with the readers. Some just needed a listening ear and others requested information on groups and forums. Survivors of childhood sexual abuse never ‘get over it’ and triggers and flashbacks are a life time reminder. Some of those I spoke to didn’t/couldn’t cope with their past so I decided to help and present them with a book that details how other survivors find ways to cope. This is great timing because Coping Mechanisms is due to be published very soon.

SAMPLE CHAPTER:

A respected man

A world blind to what he was capable of

A terrified little girl . . .

Herford, Germany

1967

I looked out of the lounge window, fascinated by the torrential and persistent rain battering the glass. I was feeling pleased with myself, proud that I had finished my homework easily and quickly despite only being at my new school for three weeks. At five years of age, in a strange country with many people speaking a language that I could only understand a few words of, the Army school was a welcome haven for me. In Singapore, I had been in school for a little while, but had never been such a big girl that I was given homework. It feel terribly grown up to bring home my tiny satchel with a reading book, writing jotter, and a note saying what I needed to do for the next day.

The house we lived in wasn’t particularly homely – Army accommodation never was – but, in my bedroom, I had my few toys, my beloved golliwog, and some books. I didn’t want to be in there at the moment though. I had homework to do, and I needed an audience for that as much as anything. I wanted my family to see how grown up I was with my reading to do and numbers to learn. I had my family around me, and I was so sure that I would make friends and have a lovely time here. I had a simple, childlike belief that everything was coming together for me; little did I know how quickly it could all fall apart.

My Dad had been in the Army since before I was born and I didn’t know any different kind of life. We were in Germany, but the camp was really like a little Britain, isolated from local culture and local life, a version of home even although it was hundreds of miles away. I was born in Malta in 1962 where we stayed for a couple of years before going to a base in Germany. After that, we went to Singapore, but I remember very little of my first four or five years, nothing more than snippets really. We were never settled, it could change at any point, but that was just life.

As a child, you absorb so much of what has gone on in the past, of what your parents’ lives have been like, of what their expectations are, without ever being explicitly told and I knew that my Dad had an important job which meant that we often had to move about. I knew this had ‘always’ been the case (in my mind, ‘always’ wasn’t a concept that made much sense – I was five years old and the time between one birthday and the next seemed to take forever) and it was just the way things were. All around me, other children were living the same lives of anonymous houses and a determination not to put down roots, but school was making everything seem much more settled, much more permanent.

I had spent so much time looking forward to attending classes. All summer, I had been counting down the days, asking my Mum how many sleeps it would be until I was there. She was exasperated, or perhaps just bored, with my constant enthusiasm, but I was thrilled that every day was a step closer. I would look at my school bag every night before I went to bed, line my shoes up neatly for the hundredth time, and dream about the wonderful time I would have.

For the first two days of my life as a schoolgirl, Mum had taken me and my big brother Gary to class in the morning. The school I was now at, my very first big girl school, was nearby to living quarters and, after those first mornings, she decided it was safe enough for us to go alone. She wasn’t wrong in that sense – for children, Army bases are probably one of the most secure environments they could ever be in. I didn’t have the slightest inkling at that stage of where danger would really lie, or of how close to home it would be. I would have liked Mum to have kept taking me to school for a little longer, but she told me that I was a big girl now – which I always like to hear – and that I didn’t need her. That didn’t feel quite right, I did need her, but she wasn’t the sort of warm, cuddly mummy I saw with other kids at the school gate, so I wasn’t too surprised when she stopped taking me there so quickly.

She passed the responsibility over to Gary, who was a few years older than me. He wasn’t exactly delighted to be in charge of his little sister, but he had no choice in the matter and, for the next few days, took me on his own. I didn’t like that, for he used our time together to nip my arms, pull my hair and push me into puddles. I soon realised that he was only doing this to show off in front of the boys he hoped would be his friends, but I hated it and needed it to stop. I had made friends quickly and knew that some of the other girls walked to school on their own. After my first week, I collared Mum in the kitchen one night to test the waters.

‘Mum?’ I began.

‘What now?’ she sighed, continuing to peel potatoes for dinner.

‘I’m a big girl now, aren’t I?’

‘Why? What do you want?’ she asked, narrowing her eyes at me as she turned round.

‘Well, Sophie and Debbie in my class don’t have big brothers . . . and they get to walk to school on their own.’

‘So?’ she queried, concentrating on the potatoes again now that she knew I wasn’t after anything that would cost money or time.

‘So, can I walk to school on my own? I’d be good. I’d be careful. I promise. Please, Mum? Please?’ I begged.

I was putting in more effort than required.

‘Do what you like,’ she muttered.

I was delighted that I had managed to get Mum to agree that I could go with the others, as it served the dual purpose of getting Gary away from me and making me feel even more grown up. I wasn’t too bothered by the fact that she didn’t seem particularly interested in what I did because, just as I accepted we might move at any time, I also accepted that my Mum wasn’t the most loving person in the world. Of course, I would have preferred things to be different, but I was well aware that she had other things on her mind. The thing was, Mum wasn’t very well. I had no idea what was actually wrong with her, but I wasn’t the only one – I knew from listening to snippets of her conversations with Dad when she came back from the medical centre that the doctors were clueless too.

She was often sick and I would hear her vomiting at all times of the day and night. Sometimes the sound would wake me up at night as it was so loud and she would moan in pain when it happened. I had also seen these weird lumpy things on her body, like boils, and knew that her skin hurt a lot of the time. She would rub horrible smelly stuff into it that she told me was paraffin oil, and the stench of it filled our house. When she was unwell, she would tell me that she couldn’t be bothered with me, and Dad would say that I had to leave her alone, so I knew that she might be in pain or feeling unwell when I asked her about walking to school on my own and maybe that was why she had seemed so disinterested.

Whatever the reason, by the time I was sitting at the table, with my books and jotter in front of me, I was glad that I had been allowed to walk to school with Debbie and the others, because it was all part of becoming grown up. Gary wasn’t able to get at me when I was with other people, and, to be honest, he wasn’t that interested as he could go off with his friends when he no longer had to take care of me.

I was concentrating so hard on my work that my tongue was poking out between my lips and my eyes were screwed up – I couldn’t really read yet and numbers were still a bit tricky, but I was determined to try really hard. I got distracted by the weather and, as I watched the rain pour down the window, all of these changes were floating around in my

head, making me feel so happy – until I heard Gary guffawing over my shoulder. Quickly, my thoughts were dragged from how proud I would be to hand in my work to a sense that my brother knew something I didn’t.

‘What is it, Gary?’ I asked. ‘Why are you laughing at me?’

He snatched up my homework book from my lap, and sniggered. ‘You’re stupid! Anybody would laugh when they saw how stupid you were.’ He waved the notebook around in front of me, dangling it in front of my face as he ridiculed me. ‘You don’t know how to use capital letters or anything – the only thing you’ve got right is your name. And that’s stupid, just like you.’ I looked over to my Dad, sitting in front of the telly, oblivious to everything that was going on. He wouldn’t intervene, but I didn’t want him to anyway, he wasn’t the parent I needed. With tears welling in my eyes, I snatched my book back from Gary and rushed to find my Mum.

I’d tell on him. I’d tell her how awful he was to me, and she’d sort him out. I knew that she was in her bedroom, so I rushed there from the lounge, full of hot tears at how Gary had spoken to me, with a need for my Mum to make it all right. I barged in, the words all ready to tumble out – and froze. My mother was bent in half over a basin, vomiting violently. Her body was convulsing in pain and the sickness was coming fast. As always, I had no idea what was wrong with her, but knew that she was so ill that she was in no state to deal with my childish disputes. She looked up weakly, but had neither the strength nor the ability to even talk to me, promptly bending over the basin again and retching once more.

I backed out of the room, full of concern for my Mum, but also worried. This had happened so many times before, but there seemed to be a violence to the sickness now that I hadn’t been aware of previously. Mum had taken ill the week before and, as young as I was, even I couldn’t help but notice that she seemed to be getting worse as time went on. Ordinarily, she was pretty and well-groomed, a tall woman with long, blonde hair and a radiant glow to her skin. But on this evening, her locks were lank, her skin pallid, and she was terribly thin. My mum was only twenty-eight, but tonight she looked more than twice her age.

I returned to the lounge, where Gary was perched at the window, smirking at me and seemingly unconcerned for my mother’s illness. My Dad was still sitting where I had left him, Senior Service cigarette in one hand, and a can of beer in the other. When he finished, the cigarette butt would join the many others which lay in a full ashtray and the tin would be thrown into an old cardboard box which rattled with empties. The beer cans were always there, a constant reminder of the fact that my Dad drank all the time, yet he never seemed to be drunk. I couldn’t understand this. When I watched television, men would drink beer and then reel around in drunkenness, often falling over, slurring their words, and having a great time. That wasn’t my Dad. That wasn’t how drink affected him. I had concluded a long time ago that my Dad must not drink as much as those men, because, apart from sometimes falling asleep in his chair, I’d never seen him fall prey to the funny antics of the drunk men on telly.

In fact, my Dad wasn’t a funny man at all.

However, tonight, as I came back from seeing my mother look like Death, from watching her retch her very insides out, I would realise just how bad his temper could be. His anger seemed to ooze out of him as he turned to me and barked, ‘for fuck’s sake, stop harassing your mother.’ I was shocked – I couldn’t remember Dad ever swearing at me before, even although he had never been particularly loving or warm. He was a man who believed in standards, he was Army through and through, but now he seemed to have forgotten that he was talking to a little girl.

I stood there staring at him, stunned by the bad words which had come out of his mouth.

‘What are you fucking gawping at?’ he snapped. ‘You know she isn’t well, you know she’s ill, and Christ knows when she’ll get any better.’ I’m not sure that I did know that. I did have an awareness that my Mum was often sick, and that she was being sick more often these days, but, at five years old, I never thought forward and I didn’t put two and two together. Sometime I felt sick if I ate too many sweeties, and I knew that my friends did too. I certainly hadn’t faced up to the possibility that there was something seriously wrong with my Mum that might not get fixed.

My Dad’s words snapped me out of my reverie. ‘Keep the fuck away from her,’ he told me. ‘In fact, clear up your rubbish instead of standing there being useless. It’s your bedtime, so hurry up for Christ’s sake. Get all of your shite out of the way – move it!’

The unfairness of it swamped me. ‘It’s not rubbish, it’s my homework!’ I said, desperately wanting to cry. My Mum was ill, my Dad was swearing at me, my brother was calling me names, and my world seemed overwhelmingly horrible. I grabbed my homework jotter and books from where Gary was sitting, ignoring the fact that he was sniggering at my Dad’s treatment of me, and ran down the hallway to my bedroom.

I threw it all down onto my dressing table and flung myself down onto the bed. Just as I did so, I heard a horrendous crack and saw flashes of light. This was a ghastly night and it was getting worse. I hated thunderstorms and felt a knot in my stomach as the night got threateningly dark. I could hardly see anything. Despite the ominous feeling, I knew that I had no alternative but to go back through to the lounge. ‘Dad! Dad!’ I screamed. ‘I’m so scared. What’s happening? When will it stop, Dad?’

He was as still as a statue as I stood beside his chair. I was a five-year-old child, terrified and desperate for some consolation. I couldn’t go to my Mum and my Dad was acting in a way that I simply couldn’t comprehend. He wouldn’t even look at me. ‘Shut up. It’s only a fucking storm. Now get your arse back into bed and stop being so bloody annoying.’

Tears were brimming in my eyes as I pleaded with him. ‘Can I stay up for a little while, just until it stops? Please? Please, Dad?’

He finally turned round and looked at me. It chilled me to the bone. His face was alien and his eyes cold, almost as if he had no recognition of the child before him. Looking back, and knowing what was to come, I believe that something had broken in my father that night. Given how my world was to shatter, beginning in only a few hours’ time, it was as if he himself was unable to react to how he was behaving. The swearing, the aggression, the lack of eye contact – all of these things were part of a personality which he may have used in his day to day life in the Army, but they were not part of the make-up of a loving father.

‘If I have to tell you one more time, you little bastard . . . .’ he muttered menacingly.

He didn’t.

I could feel the atmosphere. I could sense the tension.

As my Mum writhed in agony in her own room, my own body felt a wave of fear. I was filled with a knowledge that this was a battle I couldn’t win. As I scurried back to my room, the storm raged outside – and the one which would rip my life apart was only just beginning.

SUMMARY: 74 heart-rending stories, each in 150 to 300 words. This is literature with an adrenaline rush – each story has a plot, a conflict, a lesson, humor, and a spectrum of characters. Who are they? A family of five arrives at JFK with no English and two suitcases per person. Women searching for love at a local Jewish center with the same zest as in a Jamaican nudist colony. Strippers spending $3000 on underwear. They are looking for jobs, they wear bunny slippers to work, they have sex in the office under the scrutiny of security cameras. These characters are all too human, too familiar, too flawed, and just glamorous enough to be endearing and unforgettable.

THE BACK STORY: I had written three books of poetry and the last one had surpassed even my own expectations in terms of craft, i called it Logic. But when it came out no one cared, poetry was like a corset, constricting and archaic. I made the only logical decision – not to write again. I roamed the city looking for meaning, for a new kind of logic, reading quotes from miniature books in the gardening section until I stumbled on a line from Joseph Campbell “the goal of life is to make your heartbeat match the beat of the universe.” I looked around, the year was 2007, what was happening in the universe? Facebook. The IPhone just came out. The screen got so much smaller. The attention span shrunk to a couple of hundred words. That’s when it hit me – I am going to write desperately short stories, 300 words or so, a mini Babel, a shrunken Chekhov, it will have a plot and a conflict. I remembered the lesson I learned in my creative writing class – in order to write well, write what you know. What did I know? A family of five arrive from Ukraine with no English and two suitcases per person. College boys celebrate their first Shabbat and the two schlimazels forget to turn off the lights. Young women looking for love at the ESL classes, The book, Stealing Cherries, practically wrote itself and sold itself too, there was a fellowship, sold-out venues, the book tour, customers lined up for an autographed copy. There were two older women who approached the table and one said: “Forgive me please, I hope you don’t find me rude but I think your book is perfectly timed for the bathroom.” Her friend objected: “but what if you are constipated?” “So you just read two or more!” the first one replied. “We’ll take three books each, please sign,” the two women sang. Now that was the kind of logic I could understand.

WHY WOULD SOMEONE WANT TO READ IT? Stealing Cherries is considered a leader in short attention span literature

REVIEW COMMENTS:

“ For the flash-fiction fan, ADD-suffering reader or David Sedaris admirer: Marina Rubin’s collection of micro-stories, hits all the right notes with its humor, mild perversity and warmth…Poetic, punchy and packed with vignettes, Stealing Cherries will pop your brain…”

“The flash stories are a veritable bushel of stolen cherries, each one is a delight to read, sweet and best enjoyed in bunches. A slight bitterness follows, we’re too old to enjoy stolen cherries, too grownup to snatch virgin fruit and eat it with unconscious abandon, but the memory of the taste, and the echoes within these stories are still delightful to carry within us afterwards.”–Nano Fiction

“Rubin is a new voice on the scene and her collection of flash fiction was a revelation…Her writing has such a sharp focus that she successfully captures an event and mood in very few words. While these funny, strange, off-beat works are called fiction, the ones written in the first person read like autobiography. Rubin does an excellent job capturing small, sometimes shocking, moments…”

“…its intimate clash of cultures, political and economic antagonisms, and transgressive sexualities are never very far from the surface of these sometimes nostalgic, sometimes bittersweet, often sensual fictions.”

“Like Russian-born novelists Gary Shteyngart, Lara Vapnyar and David Bezmozgis, Marina Rubin mines her immigrant experience for her fiction, uncovering the universal. Her writing is sparse and precise, yet also lush, with long sentences packed full of life, drama and artistry…”

AUTHOR PROFILE: Marina Rubin was born in the small town of Vinnitsa, Ukraine, in the former Soviet Union. Her family immigrated to United States in 1989 seeking asylum. Her first chapbook Ode to Hotels(2002) was followed by Once(2004) and Logic(2007). Her work had appeared in over seventy magazines and anthologies including 13th Warrior Review, Asheville Poetry Review, Dos Passos Review, 5AM, Nano Fiction, Coal City, Green Hills Literary Lantern, Jewish Currents, Lillith, Pearl, Poet Lore, Skidrow Penthouse, The Portland Review, The Worcester Review and many more. She is an associate editor of Mudfish, the Tribeca literary and art magazine. Her work was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2007 and again in 2012. She is a 2013 recipient of the COJECO Blueprint Fellowship. Her fourth book, a collection of flash fiction stories Stealing Cherries was released in November 2013 from Manic D Press and is available on Amazon, B&N and other booksellers nationwide. Her website is http://www.marinarubin.com

SUMMARY: High above the coast of Cornwall, a remarkable tree dominates the woodland. It stands out because it is the only oak of its type and larger than any other tree. Down the ages, it has served as a landmark for thieves and smugglers, lovers and outlaws.

In the small village below, people have a rather obsessive dread of anything that stands out, that doesn’t fit the mold. They like to keep to themselves and don’t like to see their traditions threatened.

But along comes an Italian and then an Irishman, each escaping religious persecution in his native country. A young woman and a small boy follow, fleeing the French Revolution, plus a stranger running from a charge of murder, and a girl of mixed race sent by mistake from a London orphanage.

Imagine this motley assortment of people seeking to build new lives in one hard-pressed fishing village.

THE BACK STORY: Passage Oak is part of a series of books that deal with some of the ways people respond to war. Do they stand and fight, as portrayed in Whitebeam, set in Scotland in Robert the Bruce’s time? Do they flee for their lives, as a Loyalist family does on the eve of the American Revolution in Willow Oak? Or, as in Passage Oak, do they look for opportunities to profit from the chaos? The struggling fishermen and miners provide a subtext as they try to bring the giving and taking of opportunities into balance.

WHY THIS TITLE?: An ancient oak tree stands as a landmark near a small Cornish fishing village. It not only symbolizes the singular, or the unique, as opposed to the status quo. It is also a metaphor for acceptance and tolerance, as it plays host, throughout its life and beyond, to a vast variety of life forms.

WHY SOMEONE WOULD WANT TO READ IT?: This is historical fiction with more emphasis on story than history, and nearly everyone loves a good story. It is a story that “happens” in an interesting time and place but could have happened anywhere and anywhen. It is more relevant to today’s world than I could have imagined when I began to write it several years ago.

REVIEW COMMENTS:

Amazon reviews for Passage Oak

1-Delmara sets us securely in time and place to experience the struggles that beset strangers in a strange land. The mystery lies at the intersection of those lives where the drive for survival takes on epic proportions. With a tempo that accelerates to the finale, Delmara keeps the reader’s head spinning in ironic twists of fate and the chaos of lives bent on establishing a place in the world.

2-A beautifully written story that takes place in Cornwall in the early 1800’s. Del Mara brings her wonderfully developed characters to life, thoroughly researching the time period and geography and sharing their riveting stories with us.

3-I loved it and couldn’t put it down!AUTHOR PROFILE: I’m also a violinist

AUTHOR COMMENTS: I’d be very grateful if you would post this on your lovely book site.

OUR CURRENTLY FEATURED BOOKS, “STEELE SECRETS,” BY ANDI CUMBO-FLOYD AND “WE DARE NOT WHISPER,” BY JAN NETOLICKY, CAN BE FOUND BY SCROLLING DOWN BELOW THIS POST, ALONG WITH THE FIRST TUESDAY REPLAY FOR APRIL.

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UPCOMING ON SNOWFLAKES IN A BLIZZARD, WEEK OF APRIL 12-18.

One of the goals of Snowflakes in a Blizzard has always been to showcase international authors, and this week’s offerings provide a perfect example.

Marina Rubin, author of “Stealing Cherries,” was born and spent part of her childhood in the Ukraine — so even though her collection of flash fiction stories is largely set in the U.S, her European roots obviously inform what she writes. Moreover, many of the characters she created are immigrants.

Meanwhile, Tracy Black has produced a searing memoir of parental sexual abuse, “Never a Hero To Me,” that takes place in multiple European countries. And “Passage Oak,” by K.M. del Mara, is set in the picturesque English region of Cornwall.

Which, of course, is the wonderful thing about books. No one has the time to travel everywhere, but reading is a wonderful way of experiencing other places without needing frequent flyer miles.

Enjoy.

“PASSAGE OAK,” BY K.M. DEL MARA.

High above the coast of Cornwall, a remarkable tree dominates the woodland. It stands out because it is the only oak of its type and larger than any other tree. Down the ages, it has served as a landmark for thieves and smugglers, lovers and outlaws.

In the small village below, people have a rather obsessive dread of anything that stands out, that doesn’t fit the mold. They like to keep to themselves and don’t like to see their traditions threatened.

But along comes an Italian and then an Irishman, each escaping religious persecution in his native country. A young woman and a small boy follow, fleeing the French Revolution, plus a stranger running from a charge of murder, and a girl of mixed race sent by mistake from a London orphanage.

Imagine this motley assortment of people seeking to build new lives in one hard-pressed fishing village.

“STEALING CHERRIES,” BY MARINA RUBIN

Marina writes: “I had written three books of poetry and the last one had surpassed even my own expectations in terms of craft. I called it “Logic”. But when it came out no one cared, poetry was like a corset, constricting and archaic. I made the only logical decision – not to write again.

I roamed the city looking for meaning, for a new kind of logic, reading quotes from miniature books in the gardening section until I stumbled on a line from Joseph Campbell “the goal of life is to make your heartbeat match the beat of the universe.” I looked around, the year was 2007, what was happening in the universe? Facebook. The IPhone just came out. The screen got so much smaller. The attention span shrunk to a couple of hundred words. That’s when it hit me – I am going to write desperately short stories, 300 words or so, a mini Babel, a shrunken Chekhov, it will have a plot and a conflict.

I remembered the lesson I learned in my creative writing class – in order to write well, write what you know. What did I know? A family of five arrive from Ukraine with no English and two suitcases per person. College boys celebrate their first Shabbat and the two schlimazels forget to turn off the lights. Young women looking for love at the ESL classes, The book, Stealing Cherries, practically wrote itself.

“NEVER A HERO TO ME,” BY TRACY BLACK

Writes Tracy: “Following the publication of Never a Hero to Me, the response was unprecedented. I didn’t expect any feedback but I took my time in conversing with the readers. Some just needed a listening ear and others requested information on groups and forums. Survivors of childhood sexual abuse never ‘get over it’ and triggers and flashbacks are a life time reminder. Some of those I spoke to didn’t/couldn’t cope with their past so I decided to help and present them with a book that details how other survivors find ways to cope. This is great timing because Coping Mechanisms is due to be published very soon.